Puzzle Pieces That Fit Together
by TheAngelOfTimeDeducesMyHead
Summary: Best friends every since they were young, Sherlock and Lyra have always done everything together. When they meet John Watson, he becomes a part of their many adventures. Sherlock and Lyra have always fit together, but what will come from that when they start to feel something more than friendship?
1. ASIP: Apparent Suicides

**A/N: Hello my lovelys! This is my first Sherlock fic So please do not kill me... yet.** **I might do something later on to it that might be murder worthy but I'm pretty sure I haven't yet. Unless you think that adding my OC to the show is murder worthy then I guess it's time for me to go into hiding. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The only thing in this I own is Lyra. :)**

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Chapter One: A Study in Pink; Apparent Suicides

In a bedsit somewhere in London, John Watson is reliving his Army days in his dreams. His team is under fire. A colleague cries out his name out his name as the gunfire continues. Finally he jolts awake, distressed and panic-stricken. He sits up in bed wide-eyed and breathing heavily until he realizes that he is safe and a long way from the war. Flopping back onto his pillow, he tries to calm his breathing as he continues to be haunted by his memories. Eventually, unable to stop himself, he begins to weep.

Sometime later he has sat up on the side of the bed and switched on the bedside lamp. It's still dark outside. John sits quietly, wrapped up in his thoughts, and looks across to the desk on the other side of the room a metal walking cane is leaning against the desk. He looks at it unhappily, then continues to gaze into the distance. He will not be sleeping tonight.

~~TAOTDMH~~

The sun has finally risen and John, now wearing a dressing gown over his night wear, hobbles across the room leaning heavily on his cane. In his other hand he has a mug of tea and an apple, both of which he puts down on the desk. Sitting down, he opens the drawer in the desk to get his laptop. As he lifts the computer out of the drawer, we see that he also has a pistol in there. Putting the laptop onto the desk and opening the lid he looks at the webpage which has automatically loaded. It reads, "The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson". The rest of the page is blank.

~~TAOTDMH~~

Later he is at his psychotherapist's office and he sits in a chair opposite her.

"How's your blog going?" she asks him.

"Yeah, good." he says and clears his throat awkwardly. "Very good"

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

"You just wrote 'Still has trust issues'." he says, pointing at the notepad on her lap.

"And you just read my writing upside down. D'you see what I mean?" she asks and John smile awkwardly. "John, you're a solider, and it's gonna take a while too adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.

John gazes back at her, his face full of despair. "Nothing happens to me."

~~TAOTDMH~~

OCTOBER 12TH

A well-dressed business man walks across the concourse of a busy London railway station talking into his mobile phone.

"What d'you mean, there's no ruddy car?" he asks.

His secretary is at his office talking into her phone as she walks across the room.

"He went to Waterloo. I'm sorry." she says. "Get a cab."

"I never get cabs."

She looks around furtively to make sure nobody is in earshot, "I love you." she then says quietly into the phone.

"When?" he ask suggestively.

She giggles, "Get a cab!"

~~TAOTDMH~~

Sitting on the floor by the window of what appears to be an office many stories above ground, the business man, Sir Jeffery, unscrews the lid of a small glass bottle which contains three large capsules. Tipping one out, he stares ahead of himself wide-eyed and afraid as he puts the capsule into his mouth.

Later, he is writhing on the floor in agony

~~TAOTDMH~~

Flanked by a police officer and another man who may be her solicitor or a family member, Sir Jeffrey's wife is sitting at a table making a statement to the press.

"My husband was a happy man who lived life to the full." she reads tearfully from her statement. "He loved his family and his work – and that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who new him."

Standing at one side of the room, his secretary Helen tries to keep control of her feelings but eventually closes her eyes and lets the tears roll down her face.

~~TAOTDMH~~

NOVEMBER 26TH

Two boys in there late teens are running down a street at night in the pouring rain. One, Gary, has opened a fold-up umbrella and is trying to keep it under control in the wind, while the other, Jimmy, has his jacket pulled up over his head. Jimmy calls out in triumph as a black cab approaches with its yellow sign lit to show that it is available for hire.

"Yes, yes, taxi, yes!" He whistles and waves to the taxi but it drives past. He makes an exasperated sound, the starts to head back in the direction he just came, looking round at his friend. "I'll be back in two minutes, mate."

"What?" Gary asks.

"I'm just going home;" he says, "get my mum'm umbrella."

"You can share mine!"

"Two minutes, all right?" and he walks away.

Some time later Gary looks at his watch, apparently worried because Jimmy has been gone for too long. He turns around and heads back in pursuit of his friend.

~~TAOTDMH~~

Jimmy sits crying and clutching a small glass which contains three large capsules. He unscrews the lid, his hands shaking, and sobs. He is sitting on a window ledge inside a sports centre overlooking a sports court.

The following day, an article in The Daily Express run the headline "Boy 18, kills himself inside sports centre."

~~TAOTDMH~~

JANUARY 27TH

At a public venue, a party is being held. A larger poster showing a photograph of the guest of honour is labelled "Your local MP, Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport". As pounding dance music comes from inside the room, one of Beth's aides walks out of the room and goes over to her male colleague who is standing at the bar.

He looks at her in exasperation. "Is she still dancing?" he asks her.

"Yeah," she replies, "if you can call it that."

"Did you get the car keys off her?"

"Got 'em out of her bag." she says, showing him the keys.

The man smiles in satisfaction, then looks into the dance hall and frowns. "Where is she?" he asks.

~~TAOTDMH~~

Beth has slipped out of the venue and is standing at the side of her car searching through her handbag for her keys. She sighs when she can't find them and looks around helplessly.

~~TAOTDMH~~

Beth sobs hysterically as she stands inside a portacabin on a building site. As she continues to cry, she reaches out a trembling hand towards a small glass bottle which contains three large capsules.

~~TAOTDMH~~

Detective Inspector Lestrade sits at the table looking uncomfortable as his colleague sitting beside him, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, addresses the gathered press reporters.

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London." say Donovan. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffery Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" asks one of the reporters.

"Well," Lestrade starts, "they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of..."

"But you can't have serial suicides." the reporter interrupts.

"Well, apparently you can." Lestrade argues.

"These three people: there's nothing that links them?" asks another reporter.

"There's no link been found yet," says Lestrade, "but we're looking for it. There has to be one."

Everybody's mobile trills a text alert simultaneously. As they look at their phones, each message reads:

Wrong!

Donovan looks at the same message on her own phone. "If you've all got texts, please ignore them." she says.

"Just says, 'Wrong'." says the first reporter.

"Yeah, well, just ignore that." Donovan says, "Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

"But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" asks the second reporter.

"As I say," Lestrade starts, "these... these suicide are clearly linked. Um, it's an... it's an unusual situation.. We've got our best people investigating..."

Everybody's mobile trills another text alert and again each message reads "Wrong!"

"Says, 'Wrong' again." says the first reporter.

Lestrade looks despairingly at Sally. "One more question." she says to the reporters.

"Is there any chance that these are murders," asks a third reporter, "and if there are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

"I... I know that you like writing about these," says Lestrade, "but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered."

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"

"Well, don't commit suicide."

The reporter looks at him in shock. Donovan covers her mouth and mummers a warning. "'Daily Mail'."

Lestrade grimaces and looks at the reporters again. "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as we want to be."

Again the mobiles trill their text alerts, and once more each message reads "Wrong!"

Lestrade's phone takes a moment longer to alert him to a text and when he looks at it, the message reads:

You know where

to find us.

SH

Looking exasperated, he puts the phone into his pocket and looks at the reporters as he stands up. "Thank You."

Shortly afterwards, he and Donovan are walking through the offices of Scotland Yard.

"You've got to stop them doing that." says Donovan. "They're making us look like idiots."

"Well, if you can tell me how they do it, I'll stop 'em"

~~TAOTDMH~~

John is limping briskly through the park, leaning heavily on his cane. As he walks past a man sitting on the bench, the man stares after him, clearly recognizing him. He calls out.

"John! John Watson!" John turns back to him as e stands and hurries towards him, smiling. "Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." John smile and shakes Mike's offered hand. "Hello, hi."

"Yeah, i know. I got fat!" he says grinning and gesturing to himself.

"No." John say trying to sound convincing.

"I heard you abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" Mike asks.

"I got shot." John says awkwardly and they both look embarrassed.

A little later they have bought take-away coffees and are sitting side by side on a bench in a park. Mike looks worriedly at John. Oblivious, John takes a sip from his coffee then looks across to his old friend.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" John asks.

"Teaching now." Mike says. "Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!" and they both laugh.

"What about you?" Mike asks. " Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension."

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know.

"Yeah," he starts uncomfortably, "I'm not the John Watson..."

He stops. Mike awkwardly looks away and drinks his coffee. John switches his own cup to his right hand and looks down at his left hand, clenching it into a fist as he tries to control the tremor that has started.

Mike looks round at him again. "Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen!" John says sarcastically.

Mike shrugs. "I dunno – get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on – who'd want me as a flat mate?" Mike chuckles. "What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today." Mike says.

"Who was the first?"

~~TAOTDMH~~

A man with a mop of black curls and striking silver-blue eyes unzips the body bag lying on the table and peers at the corpse inside. Behind him a girl, around twenty-six, with just as curly strawberry blonde hair that falls past her shoulders and green eyes stands beside him looking at the body.

"How fresh?" he asks.

"Just in." the pathologists Molly Hooper replies. "Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice."

Zipping the bag up again, he straightens up, turns to her and smiles falsely. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." He then turns to address the young woman. "Riding crop good enough you think?"

She smiles and nods. "Yep."

Shortly afterwards the body has been removed from the bag and is lying on its back on the table. In the observation room next door, Molly watches and flinches while he flogs the body repeatedly with a riding crop, while the woman just watches and smiles; both their faces are full of admiration.

Both of them walk back into the room and as he finishes and straightens up, breathless, Molly goes over to him.

"So, bad day, was it?" Molly asks jokingly.

Ignoring her banter, he pulls out a notebook and starts writing in it. "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text one of us."

"Listen," Molly started, "I was wondering: maybe later, when you're finished..."

He glances across to her as he is writing, then does a double-take and frowns at her.

"Are you wearing lipstick?" he asks. "You weren't wearing lipstick before." At this the young woman giggles.

"I, er, I refreshed it a bit." Molly says nervously.

She smiles at him flirtatiously. He gives her a long oblivious look, then goes back to writing in his notebook.

"Sorry, you were saying?" he asks.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." she says gazing at him intently.

He puts his notebook away. "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs. Come on, Lyra." And he walks away.

"... Okay."

Lyra giggles again and walks over to Molly. "I'm sorry, Molly, but even for one of the most brilliant minds of the century, he is completely and annoyingly obtuse when it comes to anything like that." And she walks away and follows him.

~~TAOTDMH~~

The man is standing at the far end of the lab, Lyra is leaning on the counter next to him, using a pipette to squeeze a few drops of liquid onto a Petri dish. Mike knocks on the door and brings John with him. The man glances across at them briefly before looking at his work again. John limps into the room, looking around at all the equipment.

"Well, bit different from my day." John says.

Mike chuckles, "You have no idea." He looks and sees Lyra beside the man. "Oh, hello, Lyra. I didn't know you would be here."

"Lovely to see you, Mike." she smiles.

The man sits down. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine or Lyra's."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asks.

"I prefer to text." he says.

"Sorry. It's in my coat."

John fishes in his back pocket and takes out his own phone. "Er, here. Use mine."

"Oh. Thank you." the man says. He glances briefly at Mike, he stands up and walks towards John.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike introduces him.

The man reaches John and takes his phone from him. Turning partially away from him, he flips open the keypad and starts to type on it.

"Pleasure to meet you, John." says Lyra. "Lyra Morgan. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John frowns. Nearby, Mike smiles knowingly. John looks at Lyra.

"Sorry?" John asks.

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" she asks again.

The man briefly raises his eyes to John and smiles at Lyra before looking back to the phone. John hesitates, then looks across to Mike, confused. Mike just smile smugly.

"Afghanistan." John says. "Sorry, how did you know...?"

The man looks up as Molly comes into the room holding a mug of coffee. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." he says. He shuts down John's phone and hands it back as Molly brings the mug over to him. He looks closely at her as he takes the mug. Her mouth is paler again.

"What happened to the lipstick?" he asks.

"It wasn't working for me." Molly says smiling awkwardly.

"Really?" he asks. "I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."

He turns and walks back to his station, taking a sip from the mug and grimacing at the taste.

"... Okay." Molly says and she turns to head back to the door."

"Bye, Molly!" Lyra calls to her.

"Bye, Lyra!" Molly calls back.

"How do you feel about the violin?" the man asks.

John looks round at Molly but she's on her way out the door. He glances at Mike who is still smiling smugly, and finally realizes the man is talking to him.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asks.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking." he says, typing on his laptop while he talks. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He looks at John, "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He throws a hideously false smile at John, who looks at him blankly for a moment then looks across to Mike.

"Oh, you..." John starts, "you told him about me?"

"Not a word." Mike says.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asks, turning to the man again.

"I did." the man said, picking up his coat and slipping it on. "Told Mike this morning that Lyra and I must be a difficult people to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, and like Lyra said clearly home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"And how did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, turning to Lyra.

She ignores the question and slips on her own coat and then waits while the man wraps his scarf around his neck, then picks up his mobile and checks it.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London." the man says. "Together we ought to be able to afford it." He walks toward John. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Putting his phone in his coat pocket, he walks past John and heads for the door. "Come on, Lyra!" he calls to her and she follows after him.

"Is that it?" John asks, turning to look at them.

The man turns back from the door and strolls closer to John again. "Is that what?" he asks.

"We've only just met and we're gonna go look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

John smiles in disbelif, looking across to Mike for help, but his friend just continues to smile as he looks at the man and Lyra.

John turns back to the younger man. "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name.

The man looks closely at him for a moment before speaking again. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John looks down at his leg and cane and shuffles his feet awkwardly.

"That's enough to be going on with," he says smugly, "don't you think?" He turns and walks to the door again, opening it and going through, but then leans back into the room again. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and address is 221B Baker Street." He click-winks at John, then looks round at Mike. "Afternoon."

Mike raises a finger in farewell as Sherlock and Lyra disappear from the room. As the door slams shut behind them, John turns and looks at Mike in disbelief.

Mike smiles and nods to him. "Yeah. They're always like that.

~~TAOTDMH~~

John has returned to his bedsit. Sitting down on the bed, he takes out his mobile phone and flicks through the menu to find Messages Sent. The last message reads:

If brother has green ladder

arrest brother.

SH

Puzzled, John looks at the message for a long moment, then looks across the table where his laptop is lying. He pushes himself to his feet and walks over to the table. Shortly afterwards, he has called up a search website called Quest and types "Sherlock Holmes" into the search box.

~~TAOTDMH~~

In an unknown location, a woman wearing a pink overcoat and pink high-heeled shoes slowly reaches down with a trembling hand towards a clear glass bottle which is standing on the bare floorboards and which contains three large capsules. Her fingers close around the bottle and she slowly lifts it off the floor, her hands still shaking.

~~TAOTDMH~~

John limps along the road and reaches the door marked 221B just as a black cab pulls up at the kerb. John knocks on the door as Sherlock and Lyra get out of the cab.

"Hello." Sherlock greets him. He reaches through the window of the cab and hands some money to the cab driver. "Thank you."

John turns towards him as he walks over. "Ah, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." and they shake hands.

"Hello, Lyra." John greets her.

"Hello, John." she smiles.

"Well this is a prime spot." John says. "Must be expensive."

"Oh," Sherlock starts, "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me and Lyra a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. We were able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked.

"Oh, no," Lyra says, "we ensured it." She smiles as the front door is opened by Mrs. Hudson, who opens her arms for the younger man.

"Sherlock, hello." Mrs. Hudson say. Sherlock turns and walks into her arms, hugging her briefly, then steps back. "Oh, hello, Lyra dear." and Lyra steps into her arms to give her a hug. She steps back after a moment so Sherlock can introduce John.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock introduces him.

"Hello." Mrs. Hudson greets him.

"How do?"

"Come in." Mrs. Hudson says, gesturing them inside.

"Thank you." John says.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asks and grabs Lyra's hand.

"Yeah." Mrs. Hudson says.

They walk inside and Mrs. Hudson closes the door. Sherlock trots up the stairs to the first floor pulling Lyra with him, then pauses and waits for John to hobble upstairs. As John reaches the top of the stairs, Sherlock opens the door ahead of him and walks in with Lyra, revealing the living room of the flat. John follows him in and looks around the room and at all the possessions and boxes scattered around it.

"Well, this could be very nice." John says. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes." Sherlock says. "Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely." He looks around the flat happily. "So we went straight ahead and moved in." he says at the same time John says.

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out... Oh." He pauses, embarrassed, as he realizes what Sherlock was saying. "So this is all..."

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." Sherlock says, walkings across the room and making a half-hearted attempt to tidy up a little, throwing a couple of folders into a box and then taking some apparently unopened envelopes across to the fireplace where he puts them onto the mantelpiece and then stabs a multi tool knife into them.

John has noticed something else on the mantelpiece and lifts his cane to point at it. "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine." Sherlock says. "When I say 'friend'...

Mrs. Hudson has followed them into the room. She picks up a cup and saucer as Sherlock takes off his coat and scarf.

"What do you think then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asks. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two" he says.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here." she says. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." she whispers.

John looks to Sherlock, expecting him to confirm that he and John are not involved in that way but Sherlock appears oblivious to what's being insinuated; Lyra laughs at Sherlock's obliviousness and links her arm through his.

Mrs. Hudson walks across the kitchen, then turns back and frowns at Sherlock. "Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made."

As she goes into the kitchen and starts tidying up, John walks over to one of two armchairs, plums up a cushion on the chair and then drops heavily down into it. He looks across to Sherlock and Lyra who are still tidying up a little.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." John said after a moment.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock turns to ask him.

"Found your website," he said, "The Science of Deduction."

Sherlock smiles proudly, "What did you think?" Lyra just rolls her eyes.

John throws him a "you have got to be kidding me" type of look and Sherlock looks hurt. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes;" Sherlock says, "and I can your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" John asks.

"Oi! You're not the only one who can read people." Lyra says. "I knew about his military history too. I just haven't seen the phone so I haven't had a good enough look."

"Yes, Lyra, I know." Sherlock smiles, a genuine smile, at her. "And you know how to deduce things how, Ms. Lyra Morgan?"

She smiles back at him,"Because, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been your one constant companion since the day we were born. Well, since I was born."

Sherlock turns away. Mrs. Hudson comes out of the kitchen reading the newspaper. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock, Lyra? I thought that'd be right up you two's street. Three exactly the same."

Lyra grabs Sherlock's hand and they walk over to the window of the living room as a car pulls up outside.

"Four." they say at the same time. They look down at the car as someone gets out of vehicle is a police car with its lights flashing on the roof.

"There's been a fourth." Sherlock says.

"And there's something different this time." Lyra finishes.

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

Sherlock and Lyra turn as D.I. Lestrade trots up the stairs and comes into the living room.

"Where?" Sherlock asks.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one?" Lyra asks. "You wouldn't have come to get us if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade asks.

"Yeah." Sherlock and Lyra reply.

"This one did." he says. "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" Lyra asks.

"It's Anderson."

Sherlock and Lyra grimace. "Anderson won't won't work with us." Sherlock says.

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"We know," says Lyra, absentmindedly rubbing Sherlock's arm, "we just need someone on forensics who'll work with us." She lays her head on Sherlock's shoulder, "Don't worry we'll figure something out." She smiles.

"Will you come?" Lestrade asks.

"Not in a police car." Sherlock says, "We'll be right behind."

"Thank you." Looking round at John and Mrs. Hudson for a moment, he turns and hurries off down the stairs.

Sherlock and Lyra wait until he has reached the front door, then they both leap into the air. Sherlock pulls Lyra into a hug and twirls her around the room happily.

"Brilliant!" she exclaims.

"Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He sets her down and picks up his coat and scarf, starts to put them on, and walks into the kitchen with Lyra.

"Mrs. Hudson, we'll be late." Lyra says. "Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear," she says, "not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do." Sherlock says. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

Lyra grabs a small leather pouch from the kitchen table and grabs Sherlocks offered hand, he opens the kitchen door and they disappear from view.

Mrs. Hudson turns back to John. "Look at him and Lyra, dashing about! My husband was just the same." John grimaces at the implication again. "But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell." John looks very uncomfortable. Mrs. Hudson turns back towards the door. "I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" John shouts. His response is instinctive and he is immediately apologetic as Mrs. Hudson turns back to him shock. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." he bashes his leg with his cane.

"I understand, dear;" she says, "I've got a hip." She turns towards the door again.

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you." he says.

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em."

"Not your housekeeper!"

John has picked up the newspaper which Mrs. Hudson put down and now he looks at the article reporting Beth Davenport's apparent suicide. Next to a large photograph of Beth is a smaller one showing the man who just visited the flat and identifying him as D.I. Lestrade. Before he can on, Lyra's voice interrupts him and John looks up and sees her arm in arm with Sherlock standing at the living room door.

"You're a doctor." she says. "In fact you're an Army doctor."

"Yes." he says. He gets to his feet and turns towards them as the come back into the room again.

"Any good?" Sherlock asks.

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then;" Lyra starts.

"violent deaths." Sherlock finishes.

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet." Sherlock says.

"Of course, yes." John says quietly. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

Lyra smiles and asks, "Wanna see some more?"

"Oh God, yes." he replies fervently.

Sherlock and Lyra spin around and lead John out of the room and down the stairs.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip tea. Off out." John calls out as he follows them.

"All three of you?" she asks, standing near the bottom of the stairs.

Sherlock and Lyra have almost reached the front door but the turn and walk back to her.

"Impossible suicides?" Lyra says. "Four of them?"

"There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock finishes for her.

He takes Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders and kisses her noisily on the cheek. Then he turns to Lyra and starts kissing her all over her face just so she'll laugh.

"I got my Little Lottie to laugh!" he laughs.

"Little Lottie got you to laugh as well!" she replies.

"Look at you two, all happy." Mrs. Hudson say, "It's not decent." She can't help but smile at them, though, as they turn away and head for the door again.

"Who cares about decent?" Lyra asks.

"The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" Sherlock exclaims.

He and Lyra walk out onto the street and he hails and approaching black cab.

"Taxi!"

The taxi pulls up alongside and he, Lyra, and John get in, then the car drives off again and heads for Brixton. They sit in silence for a long time while Sherlock and Lyra, who is leaning half on top of him, have their eyes fixed on Sherlock's smartphone and John keeps stealing nervous glances at them.

Finally Sherlock lowers his phone. "Okay, you've got questions." he says.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John asks.

"Crime scene." Lyra answers. "Next?"

"Who are you two?" he asks. "What do yo do?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock asks.

John starts hesitantly and slowly, "I'd say private detectives...

"But?" Lyra asks.

"... but the police don't go to private detectives." John finishes.

"We're consulting detectives." Sherlock says. "Only ones in the world. We invented the job."

"What does that mean?" John asks.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult us." Lyra says.

"The police don't consult amateurs." John says and both Sherlock and Lyra throw him a look.

"When we met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised." Lyra said.

"Yes, how did you know?" he asks her.

"She didn't know, she saw." Sherlock continues for her. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military, But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." He clicks the "k" sound at the end of the final word.

"You said I had a therapist." John says.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist." says Lyra.

"Then there's your brother." Sherlock says.

"Hmm?"

"Your phone." Sherlock says holding out his hand. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." By now John has given him the phone and he turns it over and looks at it again as he talks. "Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to us wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving." John says. Engraved on the back of the phone are the words:

Harry Watson

From Clara

xxx

"Harry Watson:" starts Lyra, "clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is.

"Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this models's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept. People do–"

"Sentiment." Sherlock interrupts her.

"Yes, sentiment." She continues. "But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John asks.

Sherlock smiles, "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; you never see a drunk's without them." He hands the phone back. "There you go, you see – you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." Lyra answers.

She and Sherlock look out the side window, she bits her lip nervously as they await for John's reaction.

"That... was amazing." John finally says.

They look round to John, apparently so surprised they can't reply.

"D'you think so?" Lyra finally asks.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." He says.

"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock says.

"What do people normally say?"

Sherlock and Lyra look at each other for a second before looking back to John. "'Piss off'!" They say simultaneously.

They smile briefly at John, who grins and turns away to look out of the window as the journey continues.

~~TAOTDMH~~

The cab arrives at Lauriston Gardens and Sherlock, Lyra, and John get out and walk towards the police tape strung across the road.

"Did we get anything wrong?" Lyra asks John.

"Harry and me don't get along," he starts, "never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock and Lyra look impressed with themselves. "Spot on then." Sherlock says. "I didn't expect us to be right about everything."

"And Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock and Lyra stop dead in their tracks. "Harry's your sister." They say.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John asks, continuing onwards.

"Sister!" They say furiously through gritted teeth.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" He asks again.

They start to walk again. "There's always something." Lyra says, exasperated.

They approach the police tape where they are met by Sergeant Donovan. "Hello, freaks."

"We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock says.

"Why?"

"We were invited." He says.

"Why?"

"I think he wants us to take a look." Lyra says sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" She asks.

"Always, Sally." Sherlock says, lifting the tape so he and Lyra can duck under it.

Lyra breathes in through her nose. "We even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't..." She looks at John. "Er, who's this?"

"Colleague of ours," Lyra says, "Doctor Watson."

Sherlock turns to John. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." He says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Donovan turns to John."What, did they follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited and..." John starts.

"No." Sherlock says, lifting the tape for him.

As John walks under the tape, Donovan lifts the radio to her mouth.

"Freaks are here." She says into the radio. "Bringing 'em in."

She leads them towards the house. Sherlock and Lyra look all around the area and at the ground as they approach. As they reach the pavement, a man dressed in a coverall comes out of the house.

"Ah, Anderson." Sherlock says. "Here we are again."

Anderson looks at him with distaste. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Lyra takes another deep breath through her nose. "Oh, quite clear, Anderson." She smiles, "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out." He says. "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that." She says.

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men." She says with a quirky expression on her face.

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"Yeah, so's Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson looks at Donovan in shock and Lyra sniffs pointedly. "Ooh, and I think it just vaporized." She smiles. "Could you let us go in now?"

Anderson turns back and points angrily at her. "Now whatever you're trying to imply..."

"Oh, I'm not implying anything." She says. She heads past Donovan, pulling Sherlock with her to the door. "I'm sure Sally just came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." She turns back to them. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Anderson and Donovan stare at her in horror. She smiles smugly, then turns and walks into the house, arm in arm with Sherlock.

"Well done, Little Lottie." Sherlock whispers to her and kisses the top of her head. "I always love it when you annoy Anderson and Donovan."

She smiles, "No, you just love it when Anderson and Donovan are annoyed."

"You've got me there."

John walks past Donovan, briefly but pointedly looking down to her knees, then follows Sherlock and Lyra inside. Sherlock and Lyra lead him into a room on the ground floor where Lestrade is putting on a coverall.

Sherlock points to a pile of similar items. "You need to wear one of these." He tells John.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asks.

"He's with us." Sherlock says, taking his gloves off.

"But who is he?" Lestrade asks again.

"I said he's with us."

John has taken off his jacket and picks up a coverall. He looks at Sherlock and Lyra who have both picked up a pair of latex gloves.

"Aren't either of you gonna put one on?" He asks, referring to the coverall.

They both just look at him sternly. John shakes his head as if to say, "Silly me. What was I thinking?!"

"So where are we?" Lyra asks Lestrade.

"Upstairs." He replies, picking up another pair of latex gloves.

* * *

**A/N: Okay for those of you who read my Who fic I am sorry that I have not updated yet. I don't really have a valid reason except that I'm 13 and lazy. I really shouldn't have posted this one yet but when I get an idea in my head it must be written and I just couldn't wait to post it. **

**I STILL LOVE YOU ALL!**

**~SH**


	2. ASIP: Serial Killings

**A/N: Chapter two! Yay! Don't really have to say anything. Still please don't kill me yet. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock! I only own Lyra!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Two: A Study in Pink; Serial Killings

Lestrade leads them up a circular staircase. He and John are wearing coveralls together with white cotton coverings over their shoes, and latex gloves. Sherlock and Lyra are putting latex gloves on as they go up the stairs.

"I can give you two minutes." Lestrade says.

"May need longer." Lyra says casually.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards." says Lestrade. "We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

He leads them into a room two stories above the ground floor. The room is empty of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner. Emergency portable lighting has been set up, presumably by the police. Scaffolding poles hold up part of the ceiling near where a couple of large holes have been knocked through one of the walls. A woman's body is lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room. She is wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. Her hands are flat on the floor either side of her head. Sherlock walks with Lyra a few steps into the room and then stops, holding one hand out in front of himself as he focuses on the corpse. Behind him, John looks at the woman's body and his face fills with pain and sadness. The four of them stand there silently for several long while before Lyra speaks.

"That's a hell of a lot of pink." She says.

Sherlock turns to Lestrade, "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything." Lestrade says startled.

"You were thinking." He says. "It's annoying."

Lestrade and John exchange a surprised look as Sherlock and Lyra step slowly forward until they reach the side of the corpse. Sherlock's attention is immediately drawn to the fact that scratched into the floorboards by the woman's left hand is the word "Rache". Lyra's eyes flick to her fingernails where the index and middle nails are broken and ragged at the ends with the nail polish chipped, in stark comparison to her other nails which are still immaculate. The woman's index finger rests at the bottom of the 'e' as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she died. Lyra makes an instant deduction:

left handed

She look up to the word carved into the floorboards and an immediate suggestion springs into her mind:

RACHE

German (n.) revenge

Instantly she shakes her head in a tiny dismissive movement and the suggestion disappears. She looks at the carved word again and overlays the five letters with a clearer type. Next to the 'e' a rapid progression of letters appear and disappear as she tries to complete the word, then the correct letter settles into place to form the word:

Rachel

She looks at Sherlock as he squats down beside the body and runs his gloved hand along the back of her coat, then lifts his hand again to look at his fingers:

wet

He reaches into her coat pockets and finds a white folding umbrella in one of them. Running his fingers along the folds of the material, he then inspects his glove again:

dry

Putting the umbrella back into her pocket, he moves up to the collar of her coat and runs his fingers underneath it before once again looking at his fingers:

wet

Reaching into his pocket he takes out a small magnifier, clicks it open and closely inspects the delicate gold bracelet on her left wrist ...

clean

... then the gold earring attached to her left ear ...

clean

... and then the gold chain around her neck ...

clean

... before moving on to look at the rings on her left ring finger. The wedding ring and engagement ring flag a different message to him:

dirty

Sherlock blinks as a rapid succession of conclusions appear in front of his eyes:

married

unhappily married

unhappily married 10+ years

Lyra knows what Sherlock is thinking and she works the wedding ring off the woman's finger and holds it up so she and Sherlock can look at the inside of the ring. While the outside of the ring is still showing

dirty

the inside registers as

clean

As Lyra lowers the ring and slides it back onto the woman's finger, they have both already reached a conclusion about the ring:

regularly removed

Lifting his hands away from the woman, he looks down at her and makes his final deduction about her:

serial adulterer

He smiles slightly in satisfaction.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks them."

"Not much." Lyra says nonchalantly.

Standing up, they take their gloves off and then Sherlock gets his mobile phone from his pocket and begins typing on it.

"She's German." Anderson says from where he's leaning against the doorway. "'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something …"

As he has been speaking, Sherlock has walked quickly towards the door and now begins to close it in Anderson's face. "Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock says sarcastically. Slamming the door shut, he turns and walks back into the room. On his phone, he has called up a menu for "UK Weather". The menu offers five options:

Maps

Local

Warnings

Next 24 hrs

7 day forecast

He selects the Maps option.

"So she's German?" Lestrade asks.

"Of course she's not." Sherlock says as he and Lyra still look at his phone. "She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night ..." they both smile smugly as Sherlock apparently finds the information he needed, "... before returning home to Cardiff." He pockets his phone.

"So far, so obvious." Lyra shrugs.

"Sorry – obvious?" John asks.

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade asks.

Lyra ignores him and looks at John, "So, what d'you think, Doctor Watson?"

"Of the message?" John asks.

"Of the body." Sherlock says. "You're a medical man."

"Wait, no," Lestrade interrupts, "we have a whole team right outside."

"You know for a fact they won't work with us." says Lyra.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you two in here." he says.

"Yes ..." Sherlock starts, "because you need us."

Lestrade stares at them for a moment, then lowers his eyes helplessly. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"Doctor Watson." Sherlock says.

"Hm?" He looks up from the body to Sherlock and Lyra; then turns his head towards Lestrade, silently seeking his permission.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." Lestrade says a little tetchily. He turns and opens the door, going outside. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Sherlock, Lyra, and John walk over to the body. Sherlock and Lyra squat down on one side of it and John painfully lowers himself to one knee on the other side, leaning heavily on his cane to support himself.

"Well?" Sherlock asks him.

"What am I doing here?" John asks softly.

"Helping us make a point." Lyra softly replies.

"I'm supposed to be helping you two pay the rent." he says.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." Sherlock says.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock says, "but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

As Lestrade comes back into the room and stands just inside the doorway, John drags his other leg down into a kneeling position and then leans forward to look more closely at the woman's body. He puts his head close to hers and sniffs, then straightens a little before lifting her right hand and looking at the skin. He kneels up and looks across to Sherlock and Lyra.

"Yeah ... Asphyxiation," John says, "probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

"You know what it was, John." Lyra says, "You've read the papers."

"What, she's one of the suicides?" He asks. "The fourth ...?"

"Sherlock, Lyra – two minutes, I said." Lestrade says. "I need anything you've got."

Sherlock and Lyra stand as John struggles to get to his feet.

"Victim is in her late thirties." starts Lyra. "Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink."

"Travelled from Cardiff today," says Sherlock, "intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asks.

John looks around the room but can't see a suitcase anywhere.

"Suitcase, yes." Lyra says. "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married." She looks at Sherlock. "Which I still don't understand how people get away with that. I barely got away with it when Mycroft sent me off for a year."

Sherlock turns to her in shock."That's what he sent you off for a year to do?!"

She nods, "Yeah, he thought that would be the best way to gather information."

"I'm never letting him send you anywhere again." he says. "Mostly cause I can't stand to be away from you for longer than five minutes but now I have an even better reason."

"Oh, for God's sake," Lestrade says, "can we get back to the woman? If you two are just making this up ..."

"Her wedding ring." Sherlock says, pointing to her left hand. "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant." John says admiringly. Sherlock and Lyra look round at him. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asks.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asks.

"It's not obvious to me." John says

Sherlock pauses as he looks at the other two. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He turns back to the body.

"Her coat: it's slightly damp." he starts naming his findings. "She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He gets his phone from his pocket and shows to the other two the webpage he was looking at earlier, displaying today's weather for the southern part of Britain. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" John exclaims.

"D'you know you do that out loud?" Lyra asks in a low voice.

"Sorry. I'll shut up." John says.

"No, it's ... fine." Sherlock says.

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asks them.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser." Sherlock says spinning around in a circle to look around the room.

"Find out who Rachel is." Lyra adds.

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Lestrade asks.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" Lyra says sarcastically. "Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade questions.

"Back of the right leg:" Sherlock replies, pointing down to the body, where her tights have small black splotches on the lower part of her right leg, "tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He squats down by the woman's body and examines the backs of her legs more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade says.

Slowly Sherlock raises his head and frowns up at Lestrade. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade replies. "There was never any suitcase."

Immediately Sherlock straightens up, grabs Lyra's hand,and heads for the door, calling out to all the police officers in the house as he begins to hurry down the stairs. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade and John follow them out and stop on the landing. Lestrade calls down the stairs. "Sherlock, Lyra, there was no case!"

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." he says, slowing down, but still making his way down the stairs.

"Right, yeah, thanks! And ...?"

"It's murder, all of them." Lyra says. "We don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings."

Sherlock holds his hands up in front of his face in delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock stops and calls up to the others, "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case." He talks quietly, as if talking to himself, "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John reasons.

Sherlock looks up the stairs again, "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking ..." He stops talking as he makes a realization. "Oh." His eyes widen and his face lights up.

He looks to Lyra and she realizes too. "Oh!" They clasp their hands together.

"Sherlock? Lyra?" John asks.

"What is it, what?" Lestrade asks, leaning over the railings.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock says, smiling cheerfully to himself.

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade exclaims.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Lyra yells back. She and Sherlock start to hurry down the stairs again.

"Look at her, really look!" Sherlock yells. "Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were."

"Find Rachel!" Lyra adds.

They reach the bottom of the stairs and disappears from view.

"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!" Lestrade calls to them.

Sherlock and Lyra come back into view and run up a couple of stairs so that they can be seen before they yell up to Lestrade. "PINK!" They yell simultaneously.

They hurry off again. Lestrade, baffled, turns and goes back into the room while Anderson and his team, who had been waiting on the next landing down, hurry up the stairs and follow him into the room.

"Let's get on with it." Anderson says.

Forgotten by everyone else, John hesitates on the landing for a moment and then slowly starts making his way down the stairs. A couple more police officers hurry up and one of them bumps against him, throwing him off-balance and making him lurch heavily against the bannisters. The man hurries on without a word, although his colleague does at least look apologetically at John as he passes. John regains his balance and continues down the stairs.

Shortly afterwards he has removed his coverall and put his jacket back on, and now walks out onto the street. Looking all around, he can see no sign of Sherlock or Lyra. He walks towards the police tape, still looking around. Donovan, standing at the tape, sees him.

"They're gone." she say.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes and Lyra Morgan?" he asks.

"Yeah, they just took off." she say. "They do that."

"Are they coming back?"

"Didn't look like it."

"Right." He looks around the area again thoughtfully, unsure what to do. "Right ... Yes." He turns to Donovan again. "Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton." she replies.

"Right. Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er ... well ..." he looks down awkwardly at his walking stick, "... my leg."

Er ..." she steps over to the tape and lifts it for him, "... try the main road."

"Thanks." he says, ducking under the tape.

"But you're not their friend." John turns back towards her. "The only person they'll ever say is their friend is other. So who are you?"

"I'm ... I'm nobody. I just them."

"Okay," she says, "bit of advice then: stay away from them."

"Why?"

"You know why they're here? They're not paid or anything. They like it. They get off on it. The weirder the crime, the more they get off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes or Lyra Morgan'll be the one that put it there."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because they're psychopaths. And psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" Lestrade calls from the entrance to the house.

"Coming." turning she calls to him. She turns back towards John as she walks towards the house. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes and Lyra Morgan."

John watches her go for a moment, then turns and begins to limp off down the road. To his right, the phone in a public telephone box begins to ring. He stops and looks at it for a few seconds but then looks down at his watch, shakes his head and continues down the road. The phone stops ringing.

~~TAOTDMH~~

Not long afterwards, John is walking down what may well be Brixton High Road. He tries to hail a passing taxi.

"Taxi! Taxi ..."

The taxi passes him by. In Chicken Cottage, the fast food restaurant outside which John is standing, the payphone on the wall begins to ring. John turns and looks as one of the serving staff walks over to it but as he reaches for the phone, it stops. John walks on down the road and shortly afterwards approaches another public telephone box. The phone inside starts to ring. Mystified by this, he pulls open the door, goes inside and lifts the phone.

"Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" asks a man's voice.

John frowns, "Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?" the voice asks again.

John looks through the window of the phone box at the CCTV camera high up on the wall of a nearby building. "Yeah, I see it."

"Watch." The camera, which was pointing directly at the phone box, now swivels away. "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

John looks across to the second camera, which is also pointed towards the phone box. "Mmm-hmm." The camera immediately swivels away.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

John stares up into the third camera which is watching him but which now turns away. "How are you doing this?" John asks.

"Get into the car, Doctor Watson." the voice says. A black car pulls up at the kerbside near the phone. The male driver gets out and opens the rear door. "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

The phone goes dead. John puts it down and looks thoughtful for a long moment, then apparently decides that there's not much else he can do and turns to leave the phone box.

~TAOTDMH~~

A few moments later he is sitting in the back seat of the car as it pulls away and drives off. An attractive young woman is sitting beside him, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry as she types on it. She is pretty much ignoring him.

"Hello." John says.

She smiles brightly at him for a moment before returning her gaze to her phone, "Hi."

"What's your name, then?" he asks her.

"Er ... Anthea."

"Is that your real name?"

She smiles, "No."

John nods, then twists to look out of the rear window briefly before turning back again. "I'm John."

"Yes. I know."

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all ..." she turns and smiles briefly at him, then looks back at her phone again, "... John."

"Okay."

~~TAOTDMH~~

Some time later, the car pulls into an almost-empty warehouse. A man in a suit is standing in the centre of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella as he watches the car stop and John get out.

In front of the man is a straight-backed armless chair facing him. He gestures to it with the point of his umbrella as John limps towards him leaning heavily on his cane.

"Have a seat, John." the man says.

John continues towards him,"You know, I've got a phone." His voice calm. He looks round the warehouse. "I mean, very clever and all that, but er ... you could just phone me. On my phone." He walks straight past the chair and stops a few paces away from the man.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes and Lyra Morgan," the man says, "one learns to be discreet, hence this place." His voice, which has had a pleasant smile in it so far, now becomes a little more stern towards the end of the next phrase. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down."

The man looks at him curiously. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The man chuckles. "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He looks at John sternly. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes and Lyra Morgan?"

"I don't have one." John says. "I barely know them. I met them ..." he looks away thoughtfully, then appears surprised as if he hadn't realized until now how little time has passed, "...yesterday."

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with them and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who are you?" John asks.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock and Lyra? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met them." the man says. "How many 'friends' do you imagine they have except for each other? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes and Lyra Morgan are capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In their minds, certainly. Lyra not as much, but if you were to ask Sherlock, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

John looks pointedly around the warehouse. "Well, thank God you're above all that." John says sarcastically.

The man frowns at him. Just then John's phone trills a text alert. He immediately digs into his jacket pocket, takes out the phone and activates it, looking at the message while ignoring the man in front of him. The message reads:

Baker Street.

Come at once

if convenient.

SH

"I hope I'm not distracting you." the man says.

"Not distracting me at all." John says casually. He takes his time looking up from the phone before he pockets it.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes and Lyra Morgan?" the man asks him.

"I could be wrong," John starts, "... but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be." the man says a little ominously.

"It really couldn't."

The man takes a notebook from his inside pocket, then opens it and consults it as he speaks. "If you do move into, um ... two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." He closes the notebook and puts it away again."

"Why?" John asks.

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information." the man says. "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what they're up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about them. Constantly."

"That's nice of you." John says insincerely.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship."

John's phone sounds another text alert. Again he immediately fishes the phone out and looks at the message which reads:

If inconvenient,

come anyway.

SH

"No." John says in response to the man's offer.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother." John says, putting his phone away again.

The man laughs briefly. "You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

The man looks at him closely for a moment, then takes out his notebook and opens it again. Gesturing slightly to make it clear that he is reading a note from the book. "'Trust issues', it says here."

For the first time since their encounter began, John looks a little unnerved. "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes and Lyra Morgan of all people?" theman asks, still looking down at his book.

"Who says I trust them?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?"

The man raises his head and looks into John's eyes. "You tell me."

John looks at him for a long moment, then turns his back on him and starts to walk away.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from them," the man says, "but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

John stops dead. His shoulders tense and drop and he angrily shakes his head a little. He is clearly furious as he turns back around to face the man.

"My wot?" John asks savagely, through bared teeth.

"Show me." the man says calmly.

He has nodded towards John's left hand as he speaks, and now he plants the tip of his umbrella on the floor and leans casually on it like a man who is used to having his orders obeyed. John, however, is not going to be intimidated and deliberately shifts his feet under him as if digging in. He raises his left hand, bending it at the elbow, and stands still. His message is clear: if the man wants to look at his hand, he'll have to come to him. Apparently unperturbed by this belligerence, the man strolls forward, hooking the handle of the umbrella over his arm as he reaches for John's hand. John instantly pulls his hand back a little.

"Don't." John says tensely.

The man lowers his head and raises his eyebrows at John, almost as if saying, "Did I mention trust issues?!" John very reluctantly lowers his hand, holding it out flat with the palm down. The man takes it in both of his own hands and looks at it closely.

"Remarkable." the man says.

"What is?" John asks, snatching his hand away.

The man turns and walks a few paces away. "Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes and Lyra Morgan, you see the battlefield." He turns towards John again. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" John asks.

'You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." Perhaps unintentionally, John nods his head. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

John almost flinches as the man accurately fires off these facts at him. His gaze is fixed ahead of him and a muscle in his cheek twitches repeatedly.

"Who the hell are you? How do you know that?" John asks, angry and distressed.

"Fire her." the man says. "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." John's eyes flicker down towards his hand before returning to stare ahead of himself, his face set and struggling to hold back his anger. "You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson ... you miss it." He leans closer to him. Reluctantly John's eyes rise up to meet his. "Welcome back." he whispers.

He turns and starts to walk away just as John's phone trills another text alert.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." the man says, casually twirling his umbrella as he goes.

John stands fixed to the spot for a few seconds, then turns and glances towards the departing man as, behind John, the car door opens and not-Anthea gets out and walks a few paces towards him, her attention still riveted to the BlackBerry held in front of her in both hands.

"I'm to take you home." she says.

John half-turns towards her, then stops and takes out his phone to look at the new message. It reads:

Could be dangerous.

LM

Putting the phone back into his pocket, John holds out his left hand in front of him and studies the lack of tremor coming from it. He smiles wryly.

"Address?" she asks him.

John turns and walks towards her. "Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."

~~TAOTDMH~~

Later, John opens the door into his bedsit and switches on the light. Walking inside and closing the door behind him, he goes across to the desk and opens the drawer, taking out his pistol. Checking the clip, he tucks the gun into the back of the waistband of his jeans and turns to leave again.

~~TAOTDMH~~

The car pulls up outside 221B Baker Street. Not-Anthea is still rivetted by whatever she's typing on her phone.

John looks across to her. "Listen, your boss – any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

"Sure." she says nonchalantly.

"You've told him already, haven't you?"

She smiles across to him briefly. "Yeah."

John nods in resignation and turns to get out of the car but just as he has opened the door, he turns back to her. "Hey, um ... do you ever get any free time?"

She chuckles. "Oh, yeah. Lots." she says sarcastically.

John waits expectantly. She continues working her phone for a long moment, then turns and looks at him before allowing her gaze to drift past him to the door of 221B.

"Bye." she says.

"Okay."

He gets out and closes the door, then watches the car pull away before turning and walking across the pavement to the front door of 221B. He knocks on the door.


	3. Not A New Chapter! Sorry!

**A/N: READ THIS! Hi guys! Sorry this isn't a new chapter. I thought I should tell y'all that it'll be awhile before we get the next ACTUAL chapter. I originally only had the first two chapters written and I'm writing the new chapters as fast a physically possible with school all crammed in. Why did I have to be so smart! I wanted to be nice because it might be months before the new chapter and I write out of order. When I get an idea in my head it gets written somewhere whether on a napkin or my phone. I wrote this a few days ago and I'm gonna put it in Scandal in Belgravia. **

**Also! My bestest friend ever fell in love with Lyra and I told her she could write one shots with her and Sherlock! If you've seen the reviews, the guest that puts RYCBAR123 at the end of all her reviews, that's her! She writes fluff better than I do. All my fluff ends up cheesy. **

**Well, here is my "I'm sorry you might not see me for months on end" gift. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I only own Lyra. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

After a moment he hears a knock on his door.

"Yes?" he asks.

"Sherlock," he hears Lyra, "can I come in?"

"Yes."

She opens the door and stands there. She's changed out of her red dress and into a sweater and a pair of jeans.

"D'you wanna talk?" she asks him.

"No."

She sighs. "Okay, I'll be in with everyone else if you need me."

"Lyra, wait."

She smiles at him, "Yes?"

"Can you just... can you just stay?"

She giggles. "When have you ever known me not to?"

He smiles and walks over to her. He wraps his arms around her and buries his head in the nape of her neck; just breathing her in. She wraps her arms around his waist and rests her chin on his shoulder. They stay like that for awhile. Whenever either one of them has ever been sad they seek comfort in the others arms.  
After awhile Lyra pulls back to look at him.

"Are you okay?" she asks him and lifts her hand to caress his cheek.

He smiles at her concern. "I'm better."

She turns and starts to walk away but he gently grabs her wrist to stop her.

"What is it?" she asks him.

"Thank you." he says. "Thank you, Lyra, for everything." He kisses her forehead. "I don't know why you have stayed with me all this time. I don't deserve you."

"Why do I do anything for you? Because I love and care for you, Sherlock Holmes. You are and always will be my best friend." She closes the door and he can hear her footsteps fading.

"I love you too." he says quietly.

* * *

**A/N: I'll try as hard as I can to write and update. **

**I still love y'all!**

**~SH**


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